


Living Dead.

by psyleedee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Angst and Feels, Anniversary, Arranged Marriage, Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, Crime Boss Dean Winchester, Dark, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Emotionally Repressed, Fights, Forced Marriage, Implied Sexual Content, Infidelity, M/M, Married Castiel/Dean Winchester, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Tragic Romance, Unhappy Castiel (Supernatural), Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:34:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23450272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psyleedee/pseuds/psyleedee
Summary: He remembers Dean Winchester.He remembers green eyes staring at him with the frigidity of a killer. He remembers, clear as day, selling himself off to the man whose heart he wished to claw out in that moment.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 24
Kudos: 98





	Living Dead.

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: This is an extremely toxic relationship, and I only wanted to write this as a release. In no way do I condone any of the below mentioned. This is a work of fiction, and contains several mature themes.

Castiel waits.

He has, for the past four hours.

It's almost one in the morning, and yet, he can't sleep.

He flips the page of the mystery thriller he's reading, not caring for it a single ounce, his head lost in the clouds.

Dark clouds, in the case. Ones that bring storm and turmoil.

He shuts his eyes. All he can think of in the silence of his bedroom, with the soft raspberry and cinnamon candle burning away in the corner, and the dim night lamp shedding it's meagre light upon his book, is how he was left alone at the party tonight.

It had been Mary's idea.

_'It's your fifth anniversary, for God's sake, Castiel. It's got to be special. Dean will love it. We'll have all sorts of wines- no- some beer, the boy likes beer, doesn't he?'_

Mary had been thrilled. Castiel couldn't care less.

Why would he bother to celebrate five years of a broken, distant marriage? One he hadn't even agreed to in the first place?

A soft gush of breeze slips in through the open window, kissing Castiel's face, and he blinks his eyes open.

Dean still isn't here.

He shuts the book and places it on the side table, not bothering to pull the covers closer despite the chill in the air.

His thoughts race again.

Now taking him back to exactly five years ago, on the very day they'd gotten married.

He remembers the gun to Michael's head. He remembers the hordes of people around them. He remembers the ropes around his waist and hands, and the cloth that muffled his cries.

He remembers Dean Winchester.

He remembers green eyes staring at him with the frigidity of a killer. He remembers, clear as day, selling himself off to the man whose heart he wished to claw out in that moment.

'Please, take me. Don't hurt Mike- I'll- I'll do anything-'  
Castiel had pleaded, the bruises on his lips making it harder to speak.

He remembers how Dean had stepped off his makeshift throne, a chair in the barn, and trudged over to Castiel. Castiel couldn't have been more than twenty three or twenty four, and Dean, ages older, fine wrinkles of the thirties already adorning his sublime face.

He remembers the cold fingertips that tilted his chin up, the same that had held a gun to his father's chest and emptied itself with no mercy.

He remembers wanting to run away, to crawl and hide. To die.

Then Dean's fingers had brushed down his cheek, over a fresh cut that had made him hiss, and with a low, predatory laugh, Dean had ordered his men to untie him from the ropes.

Only to tie him to himself, a mere object of assurance, that Michael won't bungle the Winchester's money again, only now as Don Winchester's husband.

An object.

Castiel knows he means nothing to Dean. He can feel it.

He can feel it in each moment they avoid each other's eyes. He can feel it when they sleep on the same bed, bodies inches away, yet miles and miles apart. He feels it when they don't speak to each other, except for little things, like _dinner's ready_ , or _I'll be late_. Besides that, Castiel has never spoken to his husband. He's never been loved by him.

And the worst part?

Castiel finds himself drawn to the man. As sick as it sounds, being attracted to the man who's trapped you and bound you to himself for five years, Castiel admits he can't help it.

Because he believes that in the other, special moments, the moments where he finds Dean's arm draped over his stomach some mornings, that something does exist between them.

That in the moments when he wakes up from a sudden nap on the couch, only to be covered in Dean's jacket, or the moments where Dean introduces him to his friends or guests, calling him his husband, with a glint of pride in his eyes, that something exists between them.

Or in the moments, when he sits at his vanity, all dressed up for Dean's extravagant parties, and Dean slides a pure gold chain around his lean neck, locking it behind, and ducking down to whisper a soft _you're gorgeous_ against his ear, something exists between them.

Sometimes they're close. Too close. Sometimes they're worlds apart.

A thick rush of wind through his window, that flicks his candle out, snaps Castiel out of his reverie.

The room is drenched in darkness, himself included, and almost mindlessly, he hops off the bed, and slips his feet into the silk slippers, making his way over to the candle stand that someone gifted him a few hours ago. One of the only gifts he found useful. He grabs a match from the drawer and strikes it against the box, watching as it flits to light, and holds it against the wick of the candle.

The bedroom door swings open right as the candle comes to life.

Castiel turns his head to the side, his hand cupped around the candle to shield it from the wind.

Despite the dim illumination of the room, Castiel can see his husband's face, clear as day, wracked with exhaustion, for the wrinkles have become slightly more prominent. It's no surprise to Castiel, however, for when you're married to someone as old as Dean, you anticipate the aging.

He looks at Castiel.

Castiel looks at him.

They stare at each other for a simple moment, before Castiel makes his way over.

Dean hates it when Castiel stands idle. Castiel knows it. So without a word, he grabs Dean's briefcase, and takes it away, setting it on the coffee table in the corner of their room. He huffs, not afraid of showing Dean he's disgruntled.

"Everyone missed you at the party today."  
Castiel says, considering whether he's talking to himself of to Dean, as he reaches for a jug of water and pours Dean a glass, holding it while Dean pushes his shoes off.

"What party?"  
Dean asks, as if his mother hadn't been raving about it for the past week.

"For our anniversary."

Dean gulps, louder than Castiel has heard him, and he can see the realization dawn upon his face. From confusion and annoyance, to guilt and regret.

"It's our anniversary? I thought that was next month."

"It was. A few hours ago. It's already past twelve now."

"What, fourth, third anniversary?"

"Fifth."  
Castiel takes the empty glass from Dean's hand, and walks away to set it on the side table.

"Who was there? At the party I mean?"

"Everyone. Mary, John, Sam, Jess, Benny, everyone we know. Except you, of course."

"Fuck."

"We tried calling you."

"My battery was dead. And there was no reception where I was."

"Another barn, presumably?"  
Castiel knows better than time get on Dean's furious side.

Dean's about to say something, Castiel just knows it. He doesn't even need to turn to know Dean's about to retort.

But the words never come.

Castiel turns, eyebrows drawn in confusion.

"I'm sorry."  
Dean sighs, disrobing himself, flinging his pants and shirt toward some random part of the room.

"What are you sorry for? As if you've bothered for the last four ones enough to care for this one."

Castiel doesn't want to see Dean's face. He doesn't regret what he said, it's true. But maybe he should... Not have said it.

"What did you say?"

"I said, what are you sorry for-"

"I heard you. Just wanted to give you a moment to think over what you said."

This is what Dean does. He tries to take control and authority over who he's speaking to. Not now.

Tonight something is going to change. Castiel doesn't know what it is, but he's certain it will change.

"I know to think before I say. Learned it from you, after all."

The French window slides open, and Castiel steps into the balcony, lips twitching at the cool wind that greets him as he trudges over to the edge, grabbing onto the railing as he gazes out.

The view is beautiful. Hills and green pastures for as long as he can see. Over the few hills, he can see the silhouette of a city, and he shuts his eyes, letting the cool, howling breeze envelope him.

From within the room, he hears Dean's feet hit the floor, and he tugs at his silk robe to pull it closer to his body. He knows Dean will reprimand him, most likely, for talking back. He doesn't care. Not anymore.

"What's it with you, huh?"  
Dean is standing a few feet from him, judging from his voice, but Castiel doesn't turn.

"Nothing. Just thinking."

"About what?"

"Is it necessary I reveal to you every little thing that crosses my mind?"

"No, but right now, when you're being such a bitch, yes."

Castiel gulps at Dean's words, but doesn't budge.

"Castiel? Talk to me."

Dean shuffles closer, and his warmth seeps into Castiel space.

"I... What is this, Dean?"

Castiel doesn't know where this newfound courage is spilling through, but he doesn't mind it.

"What is what?"

"This. Don't you feel it? This suffocation."

"I don't know what you're talking about..."  
Dean's hand settles against his waist, and though he's tempted to, Castiel doesn't give into the touch. He stays where he is, frozen, face pale and lips quivering.

"Of course you don't. You have ten other women to breathe with. To find the release you crave."

Dean sucks in a breath, as if pictures of him getting handsy and intimate with random, cheap models, don't make their way into the tabloids at least once a month.

"Oh, I know. Everyone knows. It's not hard to miss."

"No one's stopping you from enjoying your life."

Castiel laughs. A full, chesty, deep rumbling laugh. One that takes Dean aback and makes Castiel clamp his own mouth shut.

"No one's... No one's stopping me? From enjoying my life? Oh Dean," Castiel turns at last, right into Dean's arms, holding onto the arm at his waist, reaching up to stroke his thumb over Dean's cheekbone, his eyes following the action before meeting Dean's.

"Sweetheart, I don't have a life. Not anymore."

The smile that accompanies his words isn't even supposed to be there. It just comes to him naturally.

Dean wants to look away, and Castiel can see it in the way the older man's jaw locks, but he still holds his husbands gaze.

Castiel turns again, grasping onto the railing, as he sighs.

"This doesn't mean anything to you, does it?"  
Castiel asks with an emotionless chuckle, one that concerns Dean, clearly from the look on his face.

"What are you on about?"

"The beautiful binding of our souls in love and faith and celebration, that we know as a marriage."

Castiel snickers at his own joke, and maybe he shouldn't have drunk all that wine a while ago.

"You can leave anytime, you know."

Wow. Speak of romance, huh.

"Trust me, Dean, I can't."  
Castiel smiles, and with his hands against the cool railing, and the midnight breeze pecking at his skin, he sighs. A loud, seemingly exhilarated sigh.

Dean's hands, however, wind tighter around Castiel's waist, and right after, Dean's chin settles into the curve of Castiel's shoulder.

"Castiel, you know I do care for you-"

"No one's watching, Dean, you don't have to pretend."  
It's not the way Castiel expected his tone to be, but unknowingly, his bitterness has seeped into his words, and once again, it catches Dean off-guard. He pulls away, only his face, and a second later, Castiel can feel sharp eyes piercing into the back of his head.

Neither know what to say, so they simply let Castiel's words hang heavy in the air above them.

That is until Dean's forehead nudges against Castiel's nape.

"Have you had a little too much tonight, my love?"

Castiel winces at the endearment, a rather instinctive notion, before he shakes his head.

"How much is too much?"

Dean scoffs, and his hand travels over the lapels on Castiel's silk robe, over the loose knot that keeps it in place, and slides under. The first touch of Dean's hand to Castiel's bare stomach sends a wave of goosebumps down his body, raising the hair on the back of his neck and causing Castiel to tense his shoulders.

As if on cue, Dean shushes softly, his breath warm on Castiel's neck, as his idle hand reaches up, and he digs his thumb into Castiel's flesh, massaging his shoulder gently, as if he were made of porcelain. The hand within his robe glides over Castiel's stomach, past his navel and further up, halting at his chest, only so Dean can flick his thumb over Castiel's nipple.

Castiel doesn't react. Even though the mere flick sends a thrill down his veins, he suppresses the urge to voice his pleasure, knowing the noise would only urge Dean on, something he doesn't want.

Not that they haven't done this before, they've made love to each other on countless occasions in the past, if you can even call it ' _making love_ '. Most of it has been Castiel laying pliant and emotionless on the bed as Dean takes him.  
Dean will simply mutter 'that was good', before dozing off to sleep, but if he's being honest, Castiel would rather Dean stay silent at the end. For ' _that was good_ ' only implied that he'd had better before. And so, Castiel is never Dean's first choice, and Castiel can bet money on the fact that he would never be it either.

"Let's get to bed."  
Dean murmurs into Castiel's neck, as he withdraws his hands from the younger man's body, nudging his shoulder to turn him around.

And Castiel goes, for what other choice does he have?

Refuse Dean? He'd rather not. 

Somehow, as Castiel is laying down on the bed, for the first time in five years, Dean notices. Castiel can see that he notices, because his lips turns at the corner, the smallest twitch, and his eyebrows draw in, his eyes traveling down the expanse of Castiel's clothed body.

Castiel wouldn't dare saying this to Dean's face, but with how efficiently he can hide his emotions, Castiel might as well become one of Dean's gang men.

The window stays open, and the breeze drifts inside, along with the unfiltered moonlight, that drenches the room in a partial glow. The wind however, blows out the candle, and Castiel finds it rather poetic, how one beautiful thing can destroy another equally beautiful one.

Dean's ministrations continue, with him kneeling over Castiel's young, athletic body, broad, calloused hands gliding up Castiel's soft heel, up to his ankle, as Dean shifts forward, a rather puzzled expression on his face.

"What is it, darling? Are you not enjoying this?"

Castiel smiles.

"Of course I am."

He doesn't mean to sound disinterested, but the buzz from the wine and the drinks has amplified each feeling in his mind.

"You don't sound like you are."

Dean says, and in the silence of the night, it even sounds believable, the fact that Dean cares about what Castiel feels. So, for a moment, Castiel lets himself believe that Dean does care.

"But I am, my love," Castiel refrains himself from shuddering at the sugary lie that escapes past his lips, "enjoying it."

Dean regards him for a moment. And then smiles. Dean believes him.

He leans down, glazing his tongue over his lips, before tilting his head at an angle, and pressing his chapped ones onto Castiel's.

It's a physical instinct, the natural shutting of his eyelids, in no way caused by the helpless affection he feels for the man who's ruined his life.

The kiss is soft, not something you'd expect from someone as coarse as Dean Winchester. Dean's hand digs into the mattress next to Castiel's hand, as he hovers above the younger man, sucking Castiel's bottom lip, tongue sliding over the seam of his lips, as he pulls away, but not before nipping at Castiel's jaw.

Hands tug at the knot on his robe, and in a single fluid motion, Dean undoes it, laying both straps of the silk on either sides of Castiel, breaking the kiss off to regain his breath. His eyes settle on to Castiel's body, and he moves back, pushing the robe off Castiel's stomach, fingers nimble, as if he were unwrapping a gift.

Castiel's hand flings back to the bottom of his head, and he adjusts himself on the bed, letting Dean's hands use him as they please.

"So beautiful for me, baby."

Dean mutters, dropping a soft kiss right above Castiel's navel, dragging his lips up his husband's chest, settling his face on the centre, hands folded atop Castiel's body with a smug grin. 

Then Dean stops. He drapes himself over the younger man and peers up at him. Castiel is unaware of what Dean intends to do. Is he going to lay there all night? Is he going to make love to Castiel? Is he going to say something?

Contrary to what Castiel has thought, Dean shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath, hands creeping underneath Castiel's body on the bed, holding him in his hands, and it pulls an unexpected chuckle out of Castiel. Green eyes flicker open and gaze into his own.

Castiel runs his fingers through Dean's hair, not quite expecting the sudden, open display of affection from Dean.

"Five years, Castiel. S'a long time."

"You're telling me."

Dean sighs, and with a heavy shove, rolls them over onto their sides, his leg sliding between Castiel's thighs, brushing against the hem of his briefs, as he gazes up, head buried in the crook of Castiel's neck, arms still tight around the younger man. A beat passes before Castiel voices his thoughts. 

"What are you doing?"

"Holding you."

"Why?"

"Because I haven't held you enough."

Dean's answer renders Castiel speechless, and even though he drops his mouth open to say something, he just doesn't know what to say.

At last, with the softest voice, he mutters.

"You don't love me, Dean."

"I can try to."

"Why?"

"Because I can see that you do."

Castiel's heart almost stops beating in his chest. He gulps, his body stiffening in Dean's arms, and either Dean doesn't notice it, or he simply doesn't care about it.

 _Because I can see that you do_.

Castiel doesn't know for himself, whether he loves Dean or not. Part of him wants to empty a revolver straight into the man's head, and part of him wants to drink in every last drop of Dean's touch.

"No, I don't."  
The words are shakier than he expected.

"I'm sorry, Castiel."

A pause. 

"I don't love you, Dean."

Dean sighs and shuts his eyes, not bothering to respond to Castiel, only fuelling Castiel's restlessness. His arms stay wrapped around, with the younger man's fingers twined through Dean's short caramel blonde hair.

The open windows sends a new gush of cool wind into the room, and instead of kissing down Castiel's bare body, it prickles him, and lulls him into an incomprehensible trance.

His eyes shut.

All at once, he's at his wedding, five years ago.

_'Do you take Dean Winchester as your husband, in illness and health, in joy and sorrow, in prosperity and hardship, and promise to cherish, protect and love him?'_

_'I do_.'

A single tear rolls down Castiel's face, as Dean lays next to him, clinging to him as if they truly love each other.

He doesn't know how long he can hide his feelings from Dean. Hide his feelings from himself. 

Castiel can't help but let another one spill. And another, and another, until his cheeks are damp.

"I don't love you, Dean."

He mutters, in a broken sob, and then, with slightly more conviction, yet no less pain-

"I don't love you."

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is appreciated.


End file.
